Strung Out
by Miri1984
Summary: Modern Dragon Age 2 AU - set in Australia yes! . Andy and Sorcha are university students, each with troubled pasts. All the DA crew will be in there eventually. Cover art by Pockets!
1. I'm Drinking Vegemite

He's a med student. That's what Aveline tells me - older than us, but not by much. He has that carefully scruffy look that always makes other guys look awkward and overdressed at parties and screams "DO NOT TOUCH" to me in big, bold letters.

It never works. There's something about stubble and long hair that just… undoes me. And he's tall. So very tall.

I'm not sure how I've ended up here, leaning against the soggy bar talking to him. Parts of the evening are a blur. I know Isabela wanted me to come, I know I _intellectually _like the band that's playing (although I'm still firmly of the opinion that live music is killing music - truly that's what studios are _for _- to make it sound _better) _and I know I'm very fond of beer. Beer is good. Beer gives me a warm feeling in my tummy and stops me from making a complete fool of myself when tall, blonde med students strike up conversations with me at bars.

He is _very _tall.

"I'm Andy," he says smoothly.

"I know," I blurt out. And immediately regret thinking that beer was a good idea. Why is beer a good idea? It's made of hops. And yeast. It should be bread, not beer.

I'm drinking _vegemite._

He's looking at me.

"You know?"

"I'm a friend of Aveline's," I say by way of explanation, because even I know that it's not a good idea to say "I'm a friend of Isabela's" to someone you've just met, given all the different layers and connotations "friend of Isabela's" has around campus, some of them only legal in Canberra.

He frowns a bit. I'd forgotten that Aveline didn't _like _him, and had only given me his name because she was sick of my girlish squee-ing whenever I saw him in the line at the co-op, or that one time he'd been at the _gym _and… and…

I probably shouldn't be thinking about this when he's right next to me.

"Oh, she's not so bad once you get to know her," I say breezily. "We were at highschool."

He laughs, an easy, relaxed sound that is incredibly sexy.

"Let me guess, school captain?"

"Sports Captain, actually," I say, grinning. I don't mention who _was _school captain because that would just be like… I don't know, boasting or something, and high school was _so long ago _now for me.

Three whole years. I am twenty-one and queen of the bar.

There's a congenial shout from a nearby table and Andy's head turns. "Well, nice meeting you," he says, even though he hasn't asked my name and I haven't had time to do any of the things I wanted to and I _certainly _don't have the courage to go with him back to the table that's waving him over with his round of drinks. I sigh as I watch him walk off and walk the walk of shame back to Izzy and Aveline and Merrill.

"Hawke, you're pathetic," Isabela says, knocking back what I think is her sixth shot of the night.

"Thanks Iz."

"I mean, he approached _you - _you should have your tongue halfway down his throat by now."

"Just because you would doesn't mean she has to, Iz," Aveline says mildly, sipping at her lemonade. She lives out in the 'burbs and there's no way she'd ever risk driving under the influence. My pal Aveline - the bestest pal ever, simply because she was nearly always the only sober one.

"You'd do him. Don't lie."

"I'm not a cheater."

"I bet Donnic would even _watch…"_

"Shut up."

"He is quite handsome, isn't he?" Merrill says, nudging me as Aveline and Izzy descend into their usual snippy banter.

"He's trouble," I say, looking over at the table. "Someone that good looking always is."

"Oh, I don't know. I think you're pretty good looking and you're not trouble. You hardly ever got into any, anyway. Not like Isabela."

"She's prettier than I am," I say, thinking _that's lovely, Merrill, but you're kind of proving my point._

In fact, the person at our table who causes the most trouble is probably Merrill, even though she's blissfully unaware of it. Just walking into a room was enough to set most of the male and some of the female population on a knife edge of infatuation.

Not lust, not like Iz. Merrill just exuded _cute _and a desire to _protect _that was almost as dangerous as stubble and long hair in my books. And Christ, was that the glint of gold in his ear? I hadn't noticed the earring before. My mother would _not _approve.

I was in so much trouble.

"You could always go back over there, you know," Iz says later while Aveline and Merrill are on one of those incomprehensible toilet breaks. Why _did _women always have to go to the toilet in pairs? I was a woman and I didn't know. I mean, I knew some people did it because they were taking drugs, but Aveline and Merrill wouldn't know which end of a cigarette to smoke, let alone how to snort cocaine.

Not that I was a drug addict. You had to have money and _contacts _for that shit, and of all of the people I hung out with only _Seb _had those and he and I…

…well we weren't speaking any more.

"What, walk over there, introduce myself and sit at his table?"

"Yeah."

"Isabela, it's _all guys _and I'm…"

"Surprisingly guy like, most of the time," she is giving me the _look. _The one that I hate. The one that says _Sorcha you're an idiot._

I am an idiot.

"No," I say, staring into my beer. "I'd rather stay here with you."

She snorts.


	2. Is it that obvious?

_I'm having sex. _It's one of those things that occasionally happens to me when I can forget that I'm not Isabela. I always, _always _regret it.

Not that I don't like sex. I mean… well, that's a bit confusing, and kind of untrue, because when it gets down to it, I _don't_ like it. At least, not this kind, the kind with the guy you meet in the pub who didn't know the new haircut was because another boy had dumped you and thought it was edgy and cool instead, the guy who you'd thrashed repeatedly at Tekken… had you really put _that _many coins in the machine… ? The guy who admittedly, had a very, _very _nice firm backside and only _one _condom…

The kind of sex I do like is afternoon sex. With someone I've been with for ages, who knows I'm not going to shave my legs every day and doesn't care. The kind of sex where you wake up and nuzzle each other and suddenly it's happening because it's _right _and not the kind where you have no fucking idea where you left your _underpants _the next day…

The kind that's not _fraught with expectations._

In the morning I try to leave before he wakes up. It's dreadful of me, and when he wakes up and catches me frantically searching for underpants I just want to run, but instead I lie to him and say I have to work. I do. Kind of. I need to practice. I always need to practice more than I do and the fact that I'm probably just going to go home and nurse my aching head rather than even TOUCH the instrument is beside the point. My voice stumbles over the words and I thank _Christ _I didn't meet him at the uni bar and there's a large chance I'll never ever see him again but I'm not strong enough not to give him my number. Because he _asks. _

Why did he ask?

What happened to men who liked no-strings attached sex?

In any case I take his number and shove it into my back pocket and smile at him and then I run out onto the streets of Stanmore and _fuck _I have no idea where I am and I'm hungover and feel grotty as shit and…

Andy is at the bus stop.

Jesus suffering fuck.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. I'm so far out of my element I don't even know what _direction _I'm facing. Usually I just line myself up with Sydney Tower and walk, but the guy… the guy (who's name is Cullen, I remember finally) lives in the only part of the inner-city where you don't have a clear line of sight to it and if I get on the bus going the wrong way I'll end up in fucking _Bankstown _and there's no way my head could cope with a town full of bogans right now.

I really _really _need panadol.

"Hey," he says, grinning. He knows what I've done. It's obvious. I'm wearing a t-shirt that says in big bold letters: SORCHA HAD A ONE NIGHT STAND and he's carefully lined me up in his head in the compartment labeled YOUNG, NAIVE, AND POSSIBLY EASY.

I wish I'd been easy for him and not Cullen.

Although Cullen _had_ had a _very _nice arse.

"Hey," I say, trying for nonchalant, and almost certainly failing. I'm wearing a dress. Iz said it's why I finally got laid, but I hate it. I must look like a freak. "Andy, right?"

He nods, smirking. Why is he fucking smirking?

"Sorcha, isn't it?" he says, and my heart skips a beat. I _know _I've never told him my name. Which means he must have got it from someone else.

"Yeah. That's me!"

He gives me a long look. "Rough night?"

I laugh nervously. "You could say that."

"Going out or going home?"

Fuck. It _is_ that obvious.

"Um… Newtown," I say, because that could be either. He doesn't know I live there as well as go to uni there.

"Rehearsals?"

I must look like a total idiot. Because I gape. And then I close my mouth. "Uh?"

He waves his hand to my back and I spin as though something's sitting on it. "You usually have a case with you," he says. "Violin?"

I start. Of course. Yes. That's what I go to university to do. Study. Music.

"Ah ha! Yes. Um." Actually there is a rehearsal tonight. But it's only eight in the morning. "No, actually. I'm going home. I usually need to bring the fiddle if I want to play it."

He laughs. "It _was _a good night then."

I blush. Truly, and try not to watch as he tucks a strand of golden hair behind the ear with the earring. It's a plain gold band, glinting in the morning sun.

"You're on the wrong side of the road," he says then, a slight smile still playing around his lips.

"What?"

"Busses this side go out to Westmead," he says. "Eventually. You want the other side of the road."

I am pathetically grateful to him. He's just saved me from a trip out to whoop whoop. There's a hospital in Westmead. That's _all _I know about it.

"Oh," I say. "I… totally didn't know that."

The smirk turns into a grin. "You'd better hurry if you want to catch it," he says. I start, and wave, and run across the road, and nearly get hit by a bus that turns out not to be the bus I need to catch, and it leaves and I end up being the only one at that bus stop, staring across the street at Andy who is nonchalantly reading a book and listening to music on an mp3 player.

I don't have music. Or a book. Or even my phone, which is truly stupid of me, but the purse that goes with the dress was too small for my ancient brick so I'd left it. All I can do is sit there and pretend not to watch him.

I wonder why he's catching the bus to Westmead. I wonder if he lives in the area. I wonder if _he's _going home or going out and I wonder if I'll ever get the courage to exchange more than two words with him.

He waves at me as he gets on his bus.

When I get home there are three text messages from Cullen. I want to beat my head against the wall.


	3. Enough money to buy god

Busking is pretty good income for me, when I can get it. The problem is, violinists are the pianists of the string family - everyone plays the damn thing, so getting into a group in order to actually play is harder than you might think, and people only give money to solo violinists out of pity. It's gotten easier lately to find cellists, because you know, cellists are _sexy _(something about having a large throbbing piece of wood between your legs, I'm told). That just leaves the viola…

Sometimes when I'm really desperate for money I'll borrow a viola from the department and tag along for someone, but no one really wants to play it. People don't like admitting they play the viola. I certainly didn't spend sixteen years of my life undergoing the yearly torture that are A.M.E.B exams in conservatorium examination rooms to play that shit. But hey, if I need money, it's better than working at MacDonalds.

Today Velanna is sick so I get to be second violin in the basement of the Queen Victoria Building. Just outside Town Hall Station. It's a prime spot, and it's out of the sun, which in summer makes it our favourite. I mean, you could _probably_ get a few coins from some Sydney commuters for passing out from heat exhaustion, but it's a trick that only works the once and I have rent and bills to pay.

We play all the old favourites. The closer it gets to Christmas (and yes, even though it's October, there are sodding Christmas decorations up already. I don't get it) the more money we can get out of these little sessions. In the week before we'll have a kind of rotating lineup of musicians, tag teaming out of the quartet before we die of boredom or heat exhaustion or whatever and I'll have enough money to buy god. Or it always feels that way.

It's amazing how much money people will give you for playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons over and over again until you want to kill yourself.

In any case we're taking a break. Leliana, our cellist, is off to get us some lunch and Nathaniel is just idly sitting there plucking at the strings of his viola like a guitar, while I flip through music searching for something to play that won't kill me with ennui. He's a good viola player, Nate, doesn't even prefer the violin, but he's unreliable - his father's a total arsehole not to mention one of the richest bankers in Mosman and doesn't think his precious son should be hanging out with grotty students when he can get all the money he needs from Daddy's bank account.

"The problem with getting money from daddy," Nate says, "is that he then thinks he's got the right to ask me what I spend it on." Nate's gay, but not out. Not to Rendon Howe, any way. I suspect that even if he did come out his father would just blanket deny it, possibly issue a press statement to his shareholders denying it and claim the Nathaniel Howe on the Rocky Horror float in the Mardi Gras float was actually a highly sophisticated robot created for the sole purpose of ruining the Howe name.

Nathaniel Howe, of the Mosman Howes, was not _allowed _to be gay.

"Hey," the voice is like the rich tones of Lel's cello. Seriously. I suspect it might induce orgasms in passing females, randomly tuned to that resonance, like some sort of magic radio orgasmo-wave.

I twist my head to see Andy standing behind me, laden with bags. He's obviously been shopping. Clothes shopping from the looks of things, a couple of brand name bags catch my eye, even though I've never seen him wear anything designer, ever.

He looks fantastic. He's always dressed so impeccably - even when he wears grotty band t-shirts and old jeans he looks gorgeous, and today, even though it's thirty degrees out there and I have embarrassing sweat stains under my arms, he looks fresh and cool in a flowing cotton shirt and cargo pants that show off his feet in Birkenstocks.

Most guys can't pull of Birkenstocks without looking like idiots.

_He_ has nice ankles.

"Andy!" I squeak, accidentally catching my e string with the hook on my bracelet making it twang horribly and almost certainly pulling it way out of tune at the same time.

He grins.

"You're busking?"

I nod.

"With Nathaniel?"

My head whips round to where boy Howe is lounging back in his fold out chair, fixing Andy with an indolent grin, his long dark hair framing his face and my heart gives a lurch. Oh. Of _course. _

"You know Nate?" I say, trying desperately to keep the disappointment from my voice and failing miserably, I'm certain.

Andy smirks. "We used to hang out."

_He's fucking gay. Why didn't I know that? _"Yeah, that's one word for it," Nate says, scowling that Howe scowl.

"Would you prefer me to say you pulled my still beating heart out of my chest and stomped on it with your cruel rejections?" Andy says, still smirking. _"Broody."_

"I'd prefer you didn't say anything at all, _Andrew," _Nathaniel says. "Especially when it's so wildly inaccurate."

Andy puts one hand over his heart. "You wound me," then he winks at me and I'm now officially confused, because that wink is nothing short of lascivious.

Nathaniel has done his usual "pfah" and turned away, obviously whatever went on between those two didn't end well, and Andy turns his attention back to me. "Hey," he says again.

"You already said that," I point out, and he grins.

"I did. It's a useful word. Many applications, not all of them rural."

I laugh. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Leliana coming back, laden with burgers, chips and drinks and I lean down to put the fiddle in its case. When I sit back up again he's much closer, behind my chair, and his breath ghosts over my ear as he speaks.

"Do you come here often?" He says, and it's long and drawn out, a tired line made sexy just because he's saying it

"Are you flirting with me?"

He shrugs. "Yes."

_Fuck._

"Oh," I squeak. I have no idea what to say. He shakes his head, honey coloured eyes twinkling with mischief. I'm dead certain it's a crime for someone to be that good looking.

"You're adorable," he says, leaning back again, and _those _words make my heart beat so fast I'm surprised it hasn't exploded. "Want to come out tomorrow night?"

"What?"

"Well, that wasn't the response I was hoping for."

"I ah.. I'm sorry! Yes. If you like. I'd like that. Yes?"

"I know someone who's playing in a band at the Annandale," he says. "She said she'd put me on the door. Plus one."

He names the band and I gape. It's one of my favourites. "Oh, wow. You _know _her?"

He shrugs. "We went to school together in Brisbane," he says.

I smile stupidly and then it hits me and I suddenly want to kill myself. "Oh, fuck," I swear. "I'm sorry. Tomorrow… I can't tomorrow."

He looks hurt and a bit puzzled.

"Um… it's the twelfth," I say.

He looks blank.

I shake my head, not really willing to explain. "I've got to be somewhere else. At least for a while. It's a… " I swallow. "It's a family thing."

"It goes all night?"

"Um. Not precisely."

Some of the families do that, I know. But we were never one of them. There's no point in wallowing in grief, or putting it on display for the whole world so they can pretend they know how we feel. "Grief porn," Aveline calls it, in disgust, and I agree with her.

Nathaniel is making faces at Andy and I get up to help Leliana with the food. "I can probably make it to the Annandale late," I say, although I shudder to think of what my mum will say if I try to skip out early. But it's been four years now. And mum will probably go to bed early and Carver never talks to me any way. It's not like I'll be missed.

And god, it would be nice to have something to look forward to.

"Well, I'll leave your name on the door," Andy says.

"I can pay, you should give it to someone else who can be there all night…"

He smiles, and it's a sweet smile, not his usual smirk. "No. Everyone else I know will already be there."

I swallow. "Well I'll see you there when I get there," I say.

He nods and leaves. Nathaniel gives me a look and I make a face at him.

"He's bi," Nate says around a mouthful of burger.

"Did you hear me asking?" I snap back.

Nate lifts one eyebrow and _chews _at me.

"Shut up," I say.


	4. Remembrance

We don't put the TV on, it's not done, because the news can't resist re-displaying the images and every time I so much as get a glimpse of them I start hyperventilating, terrified that I'll actually _see _them this time, even though I know intellectually that they didn't get any footage of Beth, or Dad, part of me wonders if one of the people being rushed passed the cameras on stretchers or worse, one of the _body bags_ is them…

Instead I cook a meal for us, me and mum and Carver, cottage pie, because I'm good at it and it's comfort food and it satisfies Carver's carnivorous heart and my longing for all things mashed potato. I sneak anchovies into the sauce, because even though Carver hates them he never realises they're there unless someone tells him, and mum and I share a bottle of white while Carver packs away Toohey's Dry like it's water.

"Hey, bro, you're only _just _eighteen you know. It's not like you have to _catch up _with us."

Carver snorts. He'll be starting uni next year. The thought of him hanging out at Manning with all of us is kind of annoying. Not that he'll come anywhere near me. He'll stalk off to the other side of the bar and scowl at me.

Or try to pick up Merrill again. God, hadn't _that _been embarrassing.

Izzy thinks he's cute. She's never had to _live _with him though.

We eat dinner in relative congeniality. Mum doesn't say much, which is a change from normal, but she's always quiet around this time of year. After dinner we move to the living room and watch a bit of Poirot and then some House, on DVD so we're not subjected to any news, and it's nice, really nice, even with Carver taking up a whole couch and texting some girl on his phone the whole time. At least he's _here. _It would feel weird without him and probably break mum's heart, and deep down he knows that, he's not _completely _stupid.

I get a little more drunk than I should. But I'm not driving anywhere. I can catch a bus from mum's to the Annandale, straight down Parramatta Road, and my flat is a short walk past that.

Mum goes upstairs at nine and Carver is out the door before she's even in her room and I sigh, but I can't really fault him. I potter around in the kitchen for a while, cleaning up dinner and… procrastinating, really, before finally letting myself out and walking up to catch the bus.

I'm fucking terrified.

I don't know any of Andy's friends. I'm going to this thing _by myself _if he's not willing to talk to me. I mean, I love the band, but it's _live music - which is killing music - _and even though I'm happily buzzed from the wine at dinner I don't think I'm anywhere near drunk enough to meet new people.

I get off the bus at the Annandale and adjust my hair. I didn't dress up. This is a band, and if I dressed up it would be some sort of tacit agreement that this was a date and not a "hey you like this band why don't I get you in to see them for free" thing. So I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Thank christ Sydney, in its perpetual inability to decide which season it's in, has switched back to spring rather than midsummer and it's pleasantly cool, because the heat in my face from the wine and the fear is almost _burning._

The door-bitch looks me up and down like I'm a piece of filth. Or tries to. She's obviously new at this, the disdain doesn't hit me until I actually ask her to cross my name off the list.

"You're late," she says. "They're about to start."

"Well _I'd _say I'm actually _on time _then, wouldn't you?"

"You should support the other acts, not just the ones who've already made it, you know," she says as she stamps my hand. I cock an eyebrow. She's missed the fact that as my name is _on the door _I'm _not paying for this gig, _so my actual presence will do nothing to help the - I glance at the stack of flyers on her booth - _Pink Digits_ in their quest to become famous Australia-wide.

I smile brightly. "You know, I think you're right!" I say. "I'll be sure to get here earlier next time." People are always dumfounded when you're nice to them, I find. It's my best defense. Against everything. Be nice.

I learned it from Bethany.

I push past her and make my way into the main room, which is darkened. The chances of me being able to find Andy in here are zero. I sigh. Might as well drink then.

There is a big crowd at the bar, but most of them aren't ordering, they're just leaning or sitting. When the music starts it's hard to get my order across, but I finally manage to get myself a beer and turn to face the stage. Lights occasionally bathe the audience, but they're coloured and it's impossible to make out anything other than an eye here, a nose there. Once or twice I think I get a glimpse of blonde hair and an earring, but in the Annandale that doesn't mean much.

I _do _like the band. They're _very _good live, too, tight and in tune and spontaneous - not scared of doing unexpected things with songs the crowd knows really well. Before I know it I'm doing the standing-still dance and singing along with the words and wishing I'd taken up guitar instead of violin, or that I could sing like Bethany could…

…I take a deep drink, wanting to chase that thought away. We've done our grieving for tonight.

That's when I feel a hand on my shoulder and the tickle of breath in my ear. "You're earlier than I thought you would be." He has to shout, over the music, but his voice is still sexy. I spin, nearly spilling my drink, blushing and smiling and thankful that the lighting is mostly red so he won't notice the former.

"Oh hey!" I say, but not loud enough because he just tilts his head quizzically. I shrug, giving him the universal "don't worry if you can't hear me" look and try to smile without drooling. I don't think I've been close enough to smell him before. Why I think I can smell him when we're packed so tightly with so many other people is a mystery, but there's definitely something in the air, a fresh, herbal smell, and I'm choosing to believe it comes from him because it's fucking gorgeous.

He turns to face the stage but makes no move to leave and I can actually feel the heat from his body next to me through his thin shirt.

I gulp my beer reflexively.

This was a bad idea, because on top of the wine I'd had for dinner it means certain things I should have known to attend to before leaving mum's house are now becoming urgent. I know for a fact it will take me at least ten minutes to reach the ladies toilet, if I'm lucky there'll only be six or seven women in the line and if I'm _really _lucky none of them will be locked up in cubicles having heart to hearts or mental breakdowns.

Statistically speaking I have about a fifty percent chance of getting back into this room before the first set finishes. But if I wait until it does, I'll be much closer to crunch time a la my little difficulty and the chances of there being more than fifty people in line when I do get there…

…I think about this stuff way too much.

I can't wait for the set to finish. I nudge Andy's elbow and jerk my head towards the toilets. He grins and nods and I start swimming through the pool of fetid humanity that is the Annandale.

When I emerge, gasping like a fish out of water, into the small atrium area between the toilets Andy is there talking to someone.

If you could have taken Andy and made someone who was exactly the opposite in every way… well perhaps he wouldn't have looked like this guy, but I can't help thinking that when I see him. Where Andy is tall, this person is short, dark where Andy is fair, stocky while Andy is slim. He's not bad looking, in his own way, although there seems to be a permanent scowl on his face. They're involved in what can only be described as an intense discussion, the dark guy waving his arms while Andy has his folded across his chest, a frown on his face.

I think it's the first time I've ever seen Andy look that serious.

He looks up, randomly, I'm pretty sure, and sees me. His eyebrow quirks, but the frown doesn't go and for some reason I'm suddenly afraid. It's difficult to walk over to him, but it would be stupid not to - I came here to meet him after all. By the time I get there, his face has relaxed into something resembling his normal expression and my heart settles a bit. That is, until his companion turns to me and fixes me with the most intense blue eyes I've ever seen.

"Sorcha," Andy says. "The first set's nearly over."

I force a smile. "It was touch and go whether I'd get to the bathroom and back in time," I say. He hasn't introduced his friend. I wonder if he's going to.

There's an awkward pause. Do I ask who it is? Or do I just nod and make my way back into the bar? I suspect it will increase the awkward quotient whatever I do. Obviously Andy didn't want me to meet him. I settle for turning a friendly smile towards the other guy.

His scowl deepens.

Andy gives him a warning look. "Sorcha, this is my … friend Justin," he says. I can't fail to hear the way he hesitates over the word _friend. _They certainly don't _look _friendly with each other.

"Nice to meet you," I say, nodding. Justin raises an eyebrow and lets out a breath.

"I'm sure," he says shortly, and his voice is very deep. It seems to resonate through my bones. He looks back up at Andy and there's a definite sense of _disapproval _in the air. "I'll call you later," he says, and turns on his heel to walk away.

_Rude fucker, _I think. Andy is sighing, looking really troubled, and I have a sudden thought that the guy is probably an ex of his…

"Sorry about that," Andy says. "Justin's a bit intense."

I smirk. "Just a bit?"

He laughs, but the sound is forced. "Yes. And by a bit, I mean… well, _very_." He looks the way Justin went, an unreadable expression on his face. "I haven't seen him for years," he says, voice wistful, before visibly shaking himself and turning his usual smile back to me.

I'm embarrassed that it makes my knees weak. "So, what now?" I ask. His grin intensifies.

_God, _I think._ I need another drink._


	5. Communication

We're sitting outside the main room, having decided not to go back in. There's a bar out here, from which Andy gets us a couple more beers, and I'm cradling the bottle between crossed legs, feeling its coolness under my fingers and enjoying the flavours while we talk.

We're talking.

Actual words have been exchanged.

It's fucking incredible.

"So you went to _school _with her?"

"For a while, yeah. When I was in year ten… I … ah, we moved schools a lot, but I was at that school for my final two years."

"Wow. Did she sing then too?"

"They had a band," Andy grins. "It was _terrible. _They used to play at school concerts. The drummer couldn't keep time."

"I'll assume she got new band mates then," I say.

He laughs and picks at a thread on his jeans. "Actually they're all the same. But a few years of practice without us as a captive audience have done them good." He gives me a look, then, over his beer, and I get the feeling he's about to ask something.

"I asked around," he says. "About why the twelfth was important to you."

I swallow. In my head there are two trains of thought twining together and canceling each other out so in the first flush of OMG HE ASKED ABOUT ME is the second, crushing one that is saying _now you have to tell him what happened to Dad and Beth._

"You did?" I say, because it's the only thing that will come out of my mouth right now.

He nods. "I didn't realise you were _that _Hawke." _Oh. He's going to focus on _that _aspect of it. _"The Champion Hawke."

I wince. Despite having had fantasies about this sort of thing, the reality is nothing short of crushingly embarrassing. I could lean back and sip my drink and give him an eyebrow waggle, be a kind of female Han Solo, totally at ease with a reputation completely unearned. Or I could blush and stammer and say it was nothing, even though I wake from dreams where I can still feel the heat of the flames on my skin. I'm a bit too drunk to do the former and not humble enough for the latter. So instead I try for a wry smile and lift the hair off the back of my neck to show the beginnings of the scar.

"Jesus," he says, leaning over and looking at it. "How far down does it go?"

"It pans out into a fan below the shoulderblades," I say.

His interest turns clinical and I'm surprised, even though I shouldn't be. He's a med student, he probably knows exactly how much damage third degree burns can do, hell there's probably even a case study about Bali when they study triage and burn victims...

He doesn't wince back in disgust or mouth platitudes about what happened to my family - he knows, if he knows who I am - that Beth and Dad died and I didn't, that I was stupid enough to go back in and try to save people and that was the reason they were still on the street when the second bomb went off and it was…

… the stupidest thing I'd ever done.

"You were lucky," he says then, but it's not delivered in the same tone of voice as the others, there's no "it's a miracle" or "you're a hero" implied in the tone and I'm grateful.

"I was," I say instead. "Stupid too." He cocks an eyebrow at me and I sigh. "Seriously, you must have done first aid training. The first thing they always tell you is to get yourself to safety."

"Those two people you pulled out would have died," he points out.

_They were the wrong two people, _I say in my head. And that's a terrible thing for me to think, but my counsellor says it's ok to think it, so I do.

Every fucking day.

"The indonesians did more, and we never call them champions or heroes," I say, curling my lip bitterly. It's because I'm a _national _hero, someone we can _claim _that I got all the accolades. Dragging two people I didn't even know and never have any contact with out of a club because I was too fucking stupid to realise one good deed didn't mean you got something in return.

I blink, eyes suddenly full.

He's back to clinical, thankfully, and doesn't notice. Instead… and _OMG, _he's lightly touching the tissue at the top of my neck. He's _touching _my _neck. _That's… unbelievably hot. "Did you have to do much therapy to get range of movement back in your arms?"

"I… guh…" Can't talk. Fingers. Andy's fingers. On my neck. Moving. Instead, I nod and hold my arms out in front of me briefly, before crossing them over my chest, hugging myself. There is still a twinge - not exactly pain, but the tight feeling of the scar tissue across my back. My physio was excellent, and I never felt it any more when I was playing, but… there had been a while there when it had looked like I'd never be able to pick up the fiddle again without pain.

Mum said it was the main reason I chose to major in music. I'd always meant to do it, but before Bali I'd been… less than enthusiastic about a career in it. Having it nearly taken away from me - that had made it matter so much more.

"This is as far as we got," I say, showing the range of movement. I can hug myself, but not all the way around, there's a gap between my elbows and my chest and it's not because I haven't got.. you know.. _attributes_. He nods moves his hand down to my back, outside my shirt, and he doesn't touch anything that isn't covered by cloth and then scar but I can't stop myself from shivering and leaning towards him. He has long, clever fingers. His hands are warm.

"They did a good job. I'm assuming you didn't get treated right away…"

"They had to fly me back. To Perth."

He raises an eyebrow. The surgeon who treated the burn victims there is well known, now, practically a national hero. They never linked her name to mine, though. My mum was adamant that once I was out of there the press didn't follow.

We've managed to keep a low profile ever since then.

He lets his hand drop and I sigh in disappointment and try to cover it by taking a sip of my beer.

"So who's Justin then?" I say, and immediately regret it, because any semblance of a smile leaves his face at the mention of the name.

"He's… ah… " Andy shifts and frowns. "He's my foster brother," he says finally, and I raise my eyebrows. His shoulders are hunched and everything about him screams that he doesn't want to talk about this, not now, and so I back off.

"Oh? Um. That's nice."

_You're an idiot, Sorcha._

"I think the next set is about to start," he says, trying for a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

I get up, painting my own smile over my face. "We should go back in then," I say.

We do.

I walk home by myself, still buzzing from alcohol and too-loud music and replaying all the stupid bits of the conversation in my head, pinpointing with wince-worthy accuracy all the parts where I was a tactless idiot. He'd offered to share a cab with me, but that would have been stupid, he was going the opposite direction and I would have barely gotten into it when I'd have to get out again. Then he'd offered to walk with me, but I'd been too busy flagging a taxi for him to process the offer and he probably thinks I pushed him into the cab because I was terrified of the prospect of walking through darkened streets with only him for company.

When in reality, in the little story I'd built in my head of how this night was going to go, we walked together back to my flat and…

… yeah. That.

When I get to my building I fumble for keys while I rest my head on the cool glass of the lobby door, breathing deep and wishing I was better at…everything really.

My flat is a mess. There's no sugar coating it. The fitball in front of my desk is deflating a bit more every day and I've probably got to do something about that. It's a funny thing to think, as I pull off my boots and throw them into the ever-increasing pile of disappointing footwear I own. I suppose it's because it's so shiny and blue. It pulls my attention. I'm like a lyre-bird, attracted to blue things, or is it shiny things? Or just _blue_ shiny things? Why are all fitballs blue and shiny? I've never seen a fitball that isn't. Who decides these things?

As I lie down on the unmade bed, I remember the glint of gold in Andy's ear, the way the light reflected off his not-quite-blonde hair. The quirk of his lips in a smirk. The feel of his hand on my neck.

I feel like the fitball. Air slowly fizzing out. Deflating - but slowly and gracefully.

People will only notice I don't have any air left in me when the try to sit on me and end up hitting the floor with their arse.

I imagine I can hear the slow hiss of escaping air as I drift off to sleep.


	6. Coffee

The next morning I'm hungover, which isn't something that unusual, but I've also got a rehearsal. Mahler. The Seventh. Usually I love Mahler, but today I'm dreading him and his propensity to use horns inappropriately.

Nate gives me a _look_ when I walk into the Seymour and I poke my tongue out at him.

"Did you meet his cats?" he says as I dump my case and open it, pulling out my bow and resin.

"He has cats?"

"Three of them."

"I was at a pub with the man, not shopping for furniture."

"You mean you didn't go home with him?"

I look at Nate, one eyebrow raised, and he has the decency to look embarrassed. Nate's just being an arse. It's his job. And I'm not going to ask about how he knows Andy, and I'm not going to ask if they've slept together (even though the implication is totally there - how else would Nate know he has _cats?) _because I'm mature and responsible and above those sorts of things.

"How do you know him?" I say.

_I totally didn't ask that. _

"We were in the Wardens together," Nate says, smirking and lightly plucking the strings on his viola. "Met up on a few marches, sang a few protest songs. You know how it is."

I blink. Andy hadn't really struck me as the type to involve himself in student politics, but Nate took great delight in waving placards that directly contradicted everything his father stood for at every opportunity. "He had a friend, who was really big on that sort of thing. Used to drag him around. I got the impression Andy wasn't really that enthusiastic - he just went because his friend did."

"Friend?"

"Jason? Geoffrey? Can't remember his name. Did Law. One of those swarthy types…"

"Justin," I say, and Nate nods.

Nate picks up his music and moves to his section. We sit close enough that we _could_ continue to talk over Niall and Kelli's heads, but we don't. I like Nate. Truly. But he's a dick sometimes and at the moment I want to strangle him.

I know that god hates me when Orsen steps up to the stand and tells us to flip to the fifth movement. I'm sure he's noticed the way I'm wincing, even though I'm one of twenty violinists and certainly not the best. Or the worst, thank fuck. Not that any of us are truly _bad, _we wouldn't be here if we were…

Niall begins the rhythm that marks the start of the movement and I stifle a groan as each blow of the sticks seems to wedge in my brain, crowding it out until I'm sure it's started to leak out my ears.

By the end of the rehearsal I want to strangle Niall, who's actually a really lovely guy with some really cute pet mice who would miss him dreadfully if he died, everyone who has ever played the horn, or any brass instrument, Orsen, and despite the fact that it makes me feel guilty, Mahler, because, you know, he had a shit life, and he's also already dead, but that motherfucker knew how to write a fifth movement that screwed with a hangover.

I stumble out of the Seymour and walk up to Glebe Point Road in search of coffee and company. The Hanged Man isn't full - breakfast crowd has gone and lunch crowd hasn't arrived, so I slide into a window booth and set the fiddle under the table. Leto comes to take my order and I don't even try to grin at him. This causes him to twitch a perfect black eyebrow at me.

"Hawke you're grumpier than usual," he points out.

"Do we speak now? Is that a thing we do?"

He grunts. "Latte?"

"Please."

"I'm going to assume strong."

"Assume away. But do it over there where your crooning baritone can't interfere with my hangover."

His lips twitch as he moves away. Sometimes I suspect he actually likes me and all the grunting and scowling is just for show. Some sort of elaborate way of showing affection.

I start fishing in my bag for painkillers. I would have taken them before the Mahler, but it would have been an exercise in futility, with Niall thumping away behind me. And they slow me down a bit, which wouldn't have helped Orsen's relentless desire to prove I can never move up to first violin.

"Helllloooo kitten," IsaIz purrs in my ear.

"Do you actually have any classes at that place we call university?"

She slides into the booth, smirking, not bothering to reply. "Did you meet his cats?"

I blink at her. "Why does everyone know he has cats?"

She waggles an eyebrow. "Andy's been around."

I sigh. "I didn't go home with him. He didn't come home with me. We talked. Had a few beers. Listened to music. You know."

"Talked?"

I glare at her. "Yes."

She rolls her eyes. Leto comes back and puts my coffee in front of me and gives Isabela a smirk which she returns, shifting in her seat so she can focus the full brunt of her charm on him. He leans on the booth, long sleeved shirt riding up his brown arm to reveal the whorl of his tattoo over smooth muscle. I'm not looking at it. Not. Looking.

Isabela is. Unashamedly.

"What can I get for you?"

"I can think of a few things."

"Please, just go into the back room and fuck, will you?"

"Hawke!" Two voices, exact same tone.

They both call me that. I stopped thinking it was weird from IsaIz a while a go, but it _was _odd when Leto started.

Mind you, at that stage everything about me and Leto was weird.

"Sorry, sorry. Hungover. Someone turned off my internal editor."

"You don't _have _an internal editor, sweetness," Isabela says, leaning over to chuck me under the chin. "That's why we love you."

Leto snorts.

"Get me a macchiato, love," Isabela says then. "I think I have some gossiping to do."

I sigh and cradle the glass in my hands, breathing in the rich smell. "There's nothing to tell, Iz," I say as Leto moves off to do his magic at the coffee machine.

"See, there's _always _something to tell, _you_ just never know which bits are interesting," she says. "What did you talk about?"

"Things."

She taps the table and looks at me for a long moment. "Did he run screaming from you with his hands in the air?"

"No."

Isabela shakes her head. "Take those," she says, pointing at the pills I've finally pulled out of my bag. "Drink that," the coffee, "and fucking cheer up, ok? It obviously wasn't a complete disaster."

"I pushed him into a cab and ran in the opposite direction, Iz," I say, groaning a bit. "After he offered to walk me home."

She makes a face. "Ok. So maybe it was," Leto brings her coffee and she takes it from him, pressing his hand and winking as she does so. "But that's your life isn't it? Your specialty? Complete disasters that you turn into something fabulous."

"Name one thing I've turned fabulous, Iz."

She quirks her lips over the rim of her tiny, poncy coffee. "You."

I fucking love Iz. She just has this way of making me feel better just by… being.

By the time it's time to get back to class, we're chatting and laughing as though nothing bad has happened, because really, she's managed to convince me that nothing bad _has _happened. Andy and I didn't fight, or decide we hated each other, or end up in bed to discover we're both terrible at sex. We just… had a night, where we got to find out stuff about each other. And I still like him, so perhaps, maybe he still likes me too?

I stand waiting for her on the curb as she talks to Leto inside. I still haven't worked out if they're together or not, but they both have such weird definitions of what constitutes a relationship that's not surprising. They're a good match, that way, I decide, shifting the strap on my case and checking my watch. I glance across the street and blink - certain I've seen something familiar and I have, because Justin is standing there, at the bus stop. He's leaning against the pole, smoking a cigarette, wearing a suit that I can't deny looks very fetching, his dark hair slicked back and expression serious. Watching me.

What do I do?

Do I smile? I only met the guy for a minute last night and he… well, I'm pretty sure he didn't like me and usually _usually _(and I'm not flattering myself here) people like me. At least at first.

He finishes his cigarette and puts it out on his shoe - which is shiny - and I can't help but admire the way he moves - precise, like every position was planned in advance. He flicks the butt into the nearby bin and leans back on the pole.

I think he nods at me.

Nodding is an acceptable thing to do to someone you've only just met. I nod back.

"Who's _that?" _Iz asks as she comes up next to me. I purse my lips and grab her arm.

"Friend of Andy's," I say. _Foster brother. _There's a relationship that comes with a whole lot of connotations. _I haven't seen him for years, _Andy had said.

"Andy has nice friends," Iz says, looking over her shoulder at Justin as we walk.

"You know he knows Nathaniel?" I say. I feel the need to deflect attention away from Justin. I'm not sure why.

"Andy?" She grins down at me, Justin forgotten. "Well, that just made my mind go to _all sorts _of pleasant places."

"I love you Iz," I say.

She laughs.


	7. This Costume is Stupid

Isabela and Merrill have convinced me I need to come to this. They say I've been at home too much lately. They say, since I broke up with Rory I've been a complete recluse and they're _right _but I _like _my flat and I love my play station and I'm almost three quarters of the way through Final Fantasy VIII again and it's just… hard sometimes to find the energy to get out.

But then… I do love dressing up.

Usually I would have dragged something together out of old clothing, but this year, _this year _Isabela decided I needed to be dolled up. Dolled up being the operative world. I don't know why I let her talk me into it.

No. That's not true. I totally know why I did. I did it because there's a damn good chance Andy will be there, being as he's involved in SUDS*, or at least was, and I haven't seen him in any capacity other than a "Hi" since the night of the band.

He's been friendly when we've run into each other, apologetic even. I know he works, most nights, and I know he's studying, pretty fucking hard - he's a med student after all and classes aren't light for him the way they are for me, but it…

… hurts a bit.

A lot, if I'm going to be honest with myself. I feel like I've fucked up, no matter how much Isabela tells me I haven't.

"This costume is stupid," I say.

Merrill is giggling in a corner. We're at Isabela's place - she lives closest to Uni in a share household full of people I've never seen who I suspect are drug dealers or possibly accountants, but it's the best place to get dressed up because for reasons known only to Isabela and her many and varied lovers, she has one wall that is entirely mirrored cupboards.

She also has what looks suspiciously like ropes tied to the headboard of her cast iron bed. And a large box of what I'm hoping aren't sex toys underneath it.

Not that I want to admit this, but as Isabela holds up the skimpiness that is the skirt I'm supposed to wear I suddenly realize we're missing someone.

"Not to mention, Iz that there were five spice girls," I say. "We're missing Ginger."

Iz gives me an eyebrow waggle. "No we're not," she says. "Ginger is meeting us there."

Aveline, who's been dressed and ready to go for ages (her costume really wasn't that different to what she normally wore to the gym) looks up from where she's idly flicking through a magazine that looks suspiciously like porn. "I thought Sorcha and I were your only red haired friends," she says. "And when you're done getting Posh ready I want to talk to you about this story here."

"Geri wasn't always a red head you know," Iz says "and what story are you referring to?"

"The one in this magazine, Isabela. About the feisty red haired sports science student and the young police officer?"

"Oooh! That's one of my favorites!" Merrill pipes up. Of all of us she's the only one wearing a wig, and the white blond pigtails look weird on her. Cute, but weird.

Aveline glares at her "You've read it?"

"Oh yes! I love the way he bends her over the bathroom sink in the police station and..."

"Isabela!"

Iz is busy doing things with the bikini top I'm meant to wear, a slight grin on her face. "Oh Av, get over it. No one we know reads that magazine any way..."

Av points at Merrill, one eyebrow imperiously raised. "Merrill doesn't count, she didn't even get that it was about you..."

"Ooh, is it really? Does Don really do that thing with the..."

"Isabela!"

Iz finishes the last adjustment on my costume and holds it up for me. I give her a look.

"what?" she says.

I glare. "two things. One, there's no way there's enough boob support in that top..."

Iz raises her eyebrow, then looks down at her own generous cleavage. "Hawke, there is nothing I don't know about underwire."

"Two," I swallow. "Everyone will be able to see my scar."

Iz's expression, which had been a smug smile up to this point, goes serious.

"So?"

Aveline's head whips round to me as well, her anger with Isabela momentarily forgotten, but she doesn't say anything.

Aveline was there with me.

Aveline understands.

But she doesn't say anything. Not even when I look at her.

"I think your scar is pretty, Sorcha," Merrill says then. "It has such a lovely shape - and it's so symmetrical. You were really lucky," she pauses then, realising what she's said. "Uh… I mean… well, you obviously weren't _lucky _but… as far as luck goes, you kind of… I'll just stop talking now. I'm sorry..."

"No, kitten, keep going," Isabela says, and there's a smile on her lips again. "As usual you've cut right to the heart of the matter."

I blink. Merrill doesn't lie. She's… not capable of it. "You think it's _pretty?"_

Aveline's eyebrow twitches. "She's kind of right, Hawke," she says. I look at Isabela, who's nodding.

"It doesn't detract from the shape of your back," Isabela says. "Honestly, Sorcha, ninety percent of the problem with your scar is that _you have a problem with it."_

I shift my shoulders. She's right. But it's more complicated than just not liking how it looks. I mean… I don't desperately try to cover it up or anything - I'm happy to go swimming and I wear tank tops when it's hot enough, but… this seems excessive. Especially since I'm supposed to be going out looking _good _not…

…looking like a burn victim.

And when people first see it they usually start asking questions. Or being impeccably polite and _not _asking questions which is somehow worse. I know the first thing I want to say when I see someone who's disfigured is "Wow, how the hell did _that _happen?" - I mean, it can't be more rude than just pretending it doesn't exist? Can it? I know I'd be relieved to have someone ask that without blinking and tensing up. The conclusions that some people come to are so far wrong sometimes… I've had people thinking it's something someone _did _to me and asking about previous boyfriends and my father and that… that was a whole barrel of awkwardness I never want to go back to thank you very much.

But then again, I know it would be nice for me not to have to explain it at all.

I sigh.

"Just put it on Hawke," Iz says, shaking the top and the skirt and raising an eyebrow. "If you absolutely hate it… well, I'll still make you wear it. But I'll be sympathetic."

I take the two scraps of ridiculously small cloth with me into the bathroom and pull them on. I have panty hose to go with it, and it takes me a good long while to work out how to stop the top of them from poking over the top of the skirt. Because the skirt… doesn't cover my belly. It reaches just above my hips. Or at least, it reaches just above my hips if I want it to cover anything of my arse, and I kind of _do. _No doubt later in the evening either my arse or the tops of my pantyhose will be on display for everyone, especially if, as I'm beginning to suspect will be the only way to get through this, I become sufficiently inebriated not to care.

The shoes are strappy and white and far, far too high. I sigh, sitting on the toilet to put them on my feet, wondering exactly how I'm going to walk to Manning in them without dying. When I finally come out of the bathroom Iz does me no favours at all by giving me a long drawn out whistle.

"Now that looks _good," _she purrs, standing up and moving around behind me. I wonder, not for the first time, where she managed to get her hands on a leopard skin jumpsuit. She's teased her dark hair out into a cloud of curls and looks fantastic in every way.

"My hair's the wrong colour," I point out.

"No one will be looking at your _hair _Sorcha," Iz says, turning me this way and that and looking in the mirror. "Now stop slouching," I pull my shoulders back and wince at what it does to my chest, "and let's go out."

Isabela links arms with Merrill and they waltz through the front door. I stand, for a moment, looking in the mirror, until Aveline comes up behind me and puts her hand, gently, on my shoulder.

"You look gorgeous, Sorch," she says softly. "It'll be fun."

I smirk a little, and the face in the mirror dutifully does the same. Aveline turns to toss the magazine she'd been reading on the bed and the smirk turns to a full on grin. "Don't do that," I say. "I want to _read _that story…"

She slaps me on my bare shoulder and shoves me out the door. "I'm going to kill Isabela one of these days," she murmurs, and I laugh.

_*SUDS is the acronym for the Sydney Univesity Dramatic Society - a society that ate my life when I was at Uni, but pleasantly, in a manner for which I am forever grateful._

_**The girls are going as the Spice Girls. Their outfit is this: http:/ / . com/ files/ 2010 /09 /spice. jpg (remove spaces) Prizes for who can guess who Ginger will be. No, really :D._


	8. I don't usually wear these shoes

The first thing we see as we approach the tiny footbridge across to Manning is about six girls in short black dresses. A couple of them have guitars slung over their shoulders - all of them are perfectly made up - their red lipstick glinting in the lamplight. It takes me a few moments to make the connection and then I start sniggering. Robert Palmer is sitting at the flimsy fold out desk ready to take our money and stamp our hands. "Thank you for supporting SUDS!" he says in his liquid voice and I grin. Varric exudes sex appeal, leaning back in his chair and waggling his eyebrows at us, and I can't help but laugh. "Did you know you're missing a spice?"

"Apparently Ginger is meeting us here," I say, giving Isabela a look. She grins and smiles.

"Oh, Hawke, you have no idea."

We hand over our money and get our wrists stamped. Manning is remarkably packed, dress up nights are always popular and Pop Idol as a theme has dragged some excellent costumes out of the woodwork.

Leto is there, dressed like Sid Vicious. I laugh, wondering if he'll do us the honour of spitting at us later. Velanna is Stevie Nicks, which is kind of appropriate given her hippie tendencies - to be honest she looks a bit like Stevie normally. It takes me a few minutes to work out that underneath all his make-up and fake braids, Boy George is actually Nathaniel, after which I spend a good five minutes sniggering. He scowls at me, which looks totally wrong with Boy George's face.

Pat Benatar bounces up and gives me a kiss and a wolf whistle before running back to Ozzie Ozborne with drinks (Ogrhen does NOT need more drinks, but Sigrun is a soft touch when it comes to the old bastard)_, _and The Proclaimers are propping up the bar, looking far cooler than they ever have in real life. Or at least, Cailan is looking cool, and Alistair is looking like he wants to go home. He catches my eye and raises an eyebrow, grinning, but my attention is captured by a union jack tunic and ridiculously high heeled red boots.

_Ah, _I think. _There's our Ginger._

Then my brain catches up to me. She's…. very tall. And those boots… are very big.

I gape.

Then I stare a bit.

Then I gape a bit more.

The first thought I have is… _where in the name of all that is holy did he find shoes that fit him…?_

This is a thought unworthy of someone who went to school within walking distance of Oxford Street, and I delete it before going onto the next thought which is, pretty much…

_Guh._

Because I've started at the feet, it takes a while for my whited out brain to fully appreciate what I'm seeing. Right now, it's just…. _legs. _

_Hairy legs. _

When I get to the junction of thigh and hip I stop and swallow.

This is Andy.

In drag.

Why am I finding it sexy?

I feel a finger on my chin. "You've got a little bit of drool there, Hawke," Isabela says, grinning.

"Oh fuck off you."

Andy twirls in red platform boots and I blink. He's far, _far _to comfortable in heels, and he towers over all of us. "Well," Aveline says, "when you said you'd found someone for Ginger I thought you meant someone…. female."

Iz just grins. "Oh, Andy has worn this sort of thing before," she says, waggling her eyebrows.

"And how do you know that Isabela?"

"The same way she knows most things," Andy says, smirking.

"Flatterer," Iz says, winking at him.

"Oh Andy!" Merrill squeaks. "Ah… um… you have very nice knees! Did you know that? And I'm glad you didn't bother to shave your legs, do you know how long it takes when you haven't done it before? I know I never expected to have to go through so many razors…" Andy's grin widens as he listens, waiting for a pause long enough in the tirade of cute-babble. I roll my eyes.

"Why thank you, Merrill," he says, finally and Merrill blushes prettily.

"I need a drink," I manage to choke out after a few more moments of helpless mind-flailing. Andy winks at me. "First round on me?" the others seem happy enough with this, and Andy hooks an arm through mine, smiling down at me.

"I'll come," he says. "Can't leave Posh walking around by herself, now, she might get snagged by a Becks."

"Ha!" I say. "I'm _early career _Posh, thank you very much. Back when girlpower was worth more than World Cups."

We manage to saunter to the bar, neither of us as comfortable as normal in heels, although I have to admit Andy is better at it than me. "How the fuck can you _walk _in those things?" I ask him when we finally get there and wait for the bartender to notice us.

He's leaning forward, trying to catch Lucy's attention, but she's busy serving David Byrne. Andy lifts one foot up behind him rather girlishly and lets me examine the heels. "They're mostly flat, actually. The beauty of platforms."

I glance down at my strappy things and curse them. He laughs. "You're beautiful," he says, as though it's the easiest thing to say in the world. As though they're not words I only usually hear from my girlfriends or my mum, or that drunk guy on Oxford Street I always give money to because he's hilarious and reminds me, just a little bit, of my dad...

It doesn't even feel like a pick up line. Just a fact. _You're beautiful_. I don't think I've ever been called beautiful by someone like that before. It's as though he doesn't have an internal editor, doesn't understand that sometimes you need to weigh the things you say before you say them and realise that they're going to make the person blush like a fire truck.

"Iz managed to find the one costume that I would never think of wearing in a pink fit," I finally manage to say, indicating the bikini-like top. He puts one hand gently on my bare shoulder and turns me away from him so he can look at my scar. For some reason it doesn't bother me, and not just because his hand is warm and the pads of his fingers are slightly calloused and…

His fingers splay out across my back until his palm is pressed between my shoulder blades. The blush has moved from just my face to my entire body by now.

I must be the amazing pink woman.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be," he says, after a moment, and his eyes are very warm, "but it's definitely not the first thing I was looking at."

I stammer as I order our drinks. Andy's hand drops from my back and I have to stop myself from leaning towards him. "It would have been even bigger if I hadn't…."

"Oh my _god _what _happened _to her?" The voice is high and slightly shrill and right behind us.

"Lai, please that's my…friend you know, I told you about her don't…" the second voice has a strong accent and I swallow. _God. What's he doing here?_

Andy is giving me a look. I shake my head slightly and shrug. It's not as though I wasn't _expecting _something like this, from the moment I first saw the top Iz expected me to wear. I turn around to see…(its hard not to immediately snigger) Rick Astley and Kylie Minogue. Rick's got his arm around Kylie's shoulder, her blond hair frizzed out in a cloud around her perfectly made up face. I don't think I've ever seen eyes that big or that particular shade of baby blue.

"Hi Sebastian," I say. Rick gives me a pained smile and I turn my gaze to Kylie, who _is, _to give her credit, looking a bit shocked and ashamed, with one perfectly manicured hand planted over her pink lips.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Kylie says. "I thought it was part of your costume at first and then Sebby said… Oh I'm so embarrassed, really what a horrible thing to say to someone I wish I could just…"

I blink and laugh a bit. "It's ok, don't worry," I say, trying to stem the torrent of words spilling from her mouth - fast and thick enough to drown a person.

"Ah, Sorcha this is Laika," Sebastian says. "We ah…" I cock an eyebrow before giving Laika my best smile.

"Nice to meet you Laika," I say and she titters. She actually fucking _titters. _I didn't think that was a thing people did. I blink. Sebastian is looking at Andy expectantly and with the slightest hint of disapproval.

_Subtle, Seb. Really subtle._

I repress a sigh. "Andy, this is Sebastian, an old friend of mine. Sebastian, Andy."

"Oh we've met," Andy says, grinning and I blink.

"We have?" Sebastian says.

"Don't worry, you probably don't remember me," Andy says. "I don't usually wear these shoes."

Sebastian looks even more confused and I use the opportunity to pay for our drinks and pass Andy the tray. He's more stable on his feet than me and Merrill's cosmopolitan is looking like it's going to spill.

"Sorry Seb, bit busy here," I say. "Catch up later?" Andy smiles and ducks his head, as unobtrusive as a six foot two man in one foot platforms can be.

Which isn't very.

"Oh, uh.. sure, Sorcha. Nice to see you by the way."

"You too Sebastian."

I'm kind of smugly happy that he's so much taller than Seb. And Seb has stupid boofy hair.

We make our way back to our table to find Cailan and Alistair have joined, no doubt attracted by Merrill enthusiastically demonstrating one of the Spice Girl dances, trying in vain to get Aveline to join in.

I think she actually did _research_ for this.

Words cannot express how much I love her.

As we settle down into chairs and start sipping drinks I glance back towards the bar and see Sebastian and Kylie… no… _Laika, _up against a wall enthusiastically trying to eat each other's faces. _Huh. Well. There's a thing. _

I wonder if she knows about his little… personal issue.

I wonder if she has the same issue.

I start to grin. I'm beginning to think she does. No over the age of sixteen does _that _in public unless they're not getting any.

I look across at Andy, to find him grinning at me. I laugh and toast him with my beer.


	9. Weird is relative

Beer is good. I like it. It makes me warm and fuzzy and stops me from hunching over the table in a desire to hide my scar or my boobs or both - not that it would help either. It also gives me the courage to ask and answer questions. Unfortunately Andy gets in first.

"How do _you _know Sebastian?" Andy says, leaning back in his chair and crossing one extremely bare leg over the other. There's something… hypnotic about the flash of sparkle on his high heeled boot as it bobs up and down.

"Not fair," I say, grinning. "I was going to ask you that and I know your story will be more interesting…"

He laughs. "You presume," he says. "Sebastian and I don't have much of a history. He was on the opposite side of a rally I went to once."

I cock an eyebrow. "Did you punch him?" He shakes his head.

"No. Just might have wanted to. But we always tried to be non-violent in the wardens. Nate will tell you that."

I smirk. Nate would love a chance to get thrown in jail. It would piss Rendon off no end… except of course that Rendon would probably have pulled strings to get him out before everyone else and… no… that would have made Nate even _angrier. _

"What was the rally?"

Andy loks troubled. "Pro-choice I think," he says. "They all blend into one after a while. Kind of glad I stopped going frankly. I mean… it's important, I always believed that, but after a while it feels like banging your head against a brick wall.

I agree, but silently. It feels selfish when I think about it - but there's only so much a body can do. The one issue that really hits home for me makes people look at me though I'm crazy for the stance I take on it, so I tend to stay out of politics as much as I can.

"But you haven't told me how _you _know Sebastian," he says, taking a sip of his beer.

"We used to go out," I say, and he splutters a bit. I grin and shrug. "I was in high school. Not the stupidest thing I did there." I consider for a moment. "Probably _one _of the stupidest things though."

Andy gives me a knowing smirk. "So what happened?"

I shrug and match his smirk. "We broke up."

"Why?"

"Let's just say I got sick of him trying to convert me," I say. "Also - no sex. Got a bit tiresome. All that grinding and sexual frustration. I figured I could do without that during my HSC."

Andy laughs that easy laugh that I never stop wanting to hear.

"Are you two going to dance or snog?" Isabela saunters back with Leto in tow - his trademark scowl in place, which looks pretty fucking appropriate given his costume.

"Are those our only choices?" Andy says, but he's leering at me as he says it and I feel myself flush.

"You could always go into the toilets and fuck," Isabela says, as though this is something she does every day.

I know for a fact that it isn't.

"If you choose that option please do us the courtesy of not informing anyone of it," Leto says.

"Shouldn't you be spitting on us and shouting about Anarchy?" Andy says as he gets to his feet.

"Do not tempt me," Leto mutters, and I can't help but laugh. Andy holds out a hand to me and we make our way to the dance floor. Isabela and Leto steal the couch we were sitting on. Which I now know was her plan all along, and Andy raises an eyebrow. "How long have those two been an item?" he says.

I glance back at them to see Iz has one hand on Let's knee and the other tangled in his soft white hair, their mouths very much occupied.

"You know what? I'm not sure," I say. "Something's been going on for a while, but I'm not sure what _they _think the something is…"

"Isn't he the barista at the Hanged Man?"

"Yup. Makes a fantastic latte."

"Nice tattoos."

"Yeah, don't tell him that. He gets all angsty and depressed whenever they're mentioned. Never tells me why though."

"He doesn't seem like the most communicative of guys. I wouldn't have pegged him as Isabela's type."

"Isabela has a type?"

Andy laughs. "Point."

The music is, appropriately, a mix of eighties and nineties pop. Later on Sigrun and the Legion are going to play, but it's still early and for now A-Ha are belting out over the speakers.

"Do you really want to dance?" he asks.

"No," I say, "but wasn't our only other option…"

"Isabela has no business dictating rules to us," he says. "It's not like she ever follows any."

I laugh. "True." We go out onto the balcony via the bar, Andy pulling money out of some spot in his costume that defies the laws of time and space in order to pay.

"Did you bring something else to wear?" I ask when we get outside.

He nods. "Yeah," he says. "Not that I generally object to the outfit - but I don't fancy getting bashed up by St Paul's boys on my way home."

"You really don't feel uncomfortable dressed that way?"

He gives me a small smile. "Of course I do," he says. "The trick is to _use _that. Chances are everyone else is far more uncomfortable looking at me in it than I am wearing it. So it just makes it more fun."

"You're a little strange."

"I could say the same about you," He turns towards me and there's heat in his gaze and I fumble, suddenly, for something to say.

"So why don't you?" I say.

"You're a little strange."

I take a drink. I truly have no idea what to do right now. The signals are all there - he's flirting, I'm doing whatever my equivalent of flirting is that somehow, occasionally, nets me sex or at least a kiss, but it's still quite early in the evening and if we start snogging now does that mean it has to be sustained until we go home or do we go home early and then there's the fact that for all intents and purposes he's in _drag _and I'm practically _naked _and there are three other spice girls in there who are going to be upset if we leave and…

"Hey?" his voice is gentle and I look up at him. "Something wrong?"

I give a shaky sigh. "Sorry," I say, "I'm just… bad at this…"

His lips quirk. "I don't think so. Although…" he steps closer and I have to stop myself from stepping away from him. "That depends on what you really consider this is…"

I can smell cologne on him. It's _not _that one that every other guy at Uni seems to think is great, but something muskier - it does things to me - or maybe it's because I can feel heat coming off his skin. He reaches out with his free hand and touches my elbow, just the tips of his fingers…

"What…" I say, then swallow. "What do _you _think it is?"

He smirks and takes another step closer to me, so that I can feel the scratchy cloth of his ridiculous union jack tunic against my chest.

"Well now," he says, voice low, "I have a few ideas."

I tip my head upwards, knowing how this goes, even if the steps are a little skewed. His lips brush mine and I have a second to wonder if the hot-pink of his lipstick will clash with my own, slightly darker shade before my internal monologue shuts off with a splutter and a healthy dose of guh.

The kiss deepens for a second before I feel a dangerous tilt and Andy breaks it off, clutching at the railing behind me and laughing breathlessly. "Oh God, I'm sorry," he gasps. "The last time I kissed someone in heels they were a lot taller than you…"

I blink and then let out a guffaw - feeling him lean against me, pondering the statement. "Do you often kiss people when you're in drag?"

He grins. "Sweetheart, if you don't end up kissing someone when you're in drag, you're doing it _wrong."_

"I'll keep that in mind."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of my hair away from my face - letting his thumb linger on my cheekbone. His eyes are dark but he pulls back from me a little regretfully - at least I hope so.

"What is it Nate?" he says over my head, and it takes a lot for me not to spin around in indignant rage. Bastard of a violist, he _said _there was no problem with this…

I don't spin round - mainly because it would require greater experience with heels on my part. Dignity is important. Instead I settle for my most penetrating glare.

I have a good stock of glares, but Nathaniel Howe is just too good for them.

He smirks.

"Merrill said to tell you Sigrun and the Legion are about to start," Nate says, tucking a braid behind his ear. His perfectly made up face is slightly smudged and I wonder why. Maybe he's been exchanging tongues with one of the Proclaimers. Cailan at least has an "if it moves, snog it, if it doesn't, snog it before it does…" attitude, and pretty blond hair. Which, judging from Andy, is Nathaniel's type.

"Really?" I say. What's probably closer to the truth is that Merrill has bounced from foot to foot and said "Oh, I know Sorcha didn't want to miss this!" and Nate has taken it as an excuse to eyeball me snogging his ex - but I should probably learn to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.

Andy places a hand in the small of my back and leans forward, his breath tickling the hair at the base of my neck. "We don't want to miss her,' he says, voice low and shiver-inducing. I think my knees buckle slightly. I know there's an audible,embarrassing gasp that escapes me as I feel the gentle press of lips where his breath was a few seconds before.

Yes. Yes I do want to miss it.

"No," I say. I don't. Not really. He raises an eyebrow at me, but nods, grinning.

Sigrun has an amazing voice. It's rich and dark like the finest coffee, and I always feel a pang when I hear it, remembering what Beth's clear soprano had sounded like paired with it back at school. Sigrun and she had sung together a lot even though Beth was younger, and I can't help but wonder if things had been different - if there could have been two mics up there instead of one - another member of the Legion weaving harmonies around their gothic sound, making it lighter, more cheerful, full of melody, like she had been.

I swallow and push the image out of my head. It was hard, sometimes, not to be resentful of Carver and his total refusal to take part in anything musical. He says he has no pitch but I think he's lying. I know my baby brother felt like the odd one out for always picking sports when the rest of us avoided them like the plague.

In any case, the brief pang I feel for the loss of my sister is rapidly swallowed up by the press of Andy's warm body behind me as Sigrun croons and Oghren's rich bass line thumps out across Manning Bar. They do a few of their own numbers first before launching into a set of eighties pop covers and before long we're dancing and laughing and Merrill even convinces us to do the Spice Girls dance - the crowd claps and cheers us and I felt like I haven't had this much fun since… ever…

An hour later - maybe two - things are getting fuzzy from the alcohol - and I find myself up against the wall with a very insistent Andy pressed against me. I'm beginning to lose all capacity for thought - if he asked me right now I'd go home with him and part of me thinks I should and another part is screaming at me not to. There's one thing that's always been consistent in my relationships (with the exception of Sebastian, naturally) they all turn bad as soon as sex enters the equation - or if not bad… (I should remember to count Rory when I think about relationships, there was at least one time I did things right) then at least… different. I really _really _don't want this to go badly. Somewhere between him calling me beautiful and the ridiculous boots, he's made me care about this a whole lot more than I thought I would.

I put my hands on Andy's chest and push him back a little. A slight frown touches his face.

"You ok?' he says, and I smile and nod, not trusting my voice right now and fighting the overwhelming urge to pull him back down again.

"I…ah…I'm keen not to…" He raises an eyebrow

"Not to…"

I'm trying to put words together and failing. "I'm sorry. I'm… bad at this…"

He dips his head and kisses me again and I gasp, forgetting everything I wanted to say in the press of lips and skin.

For a moment, at least, until he pulls back and smiles at me again. He doesn't say anything, but his face is open - reassuring - and I suddenly feel… _safe - _safe enough to say the words that come next without feeling like they're every bad romance cliche in the book rolled up and delivered with ham-fists.

"Can we take this a little slower, do you think?"

He grins. "I'm in no rush," he says. I let out a breath of relief, and he shifts from foot to foot, suddenly looking a lot younger. "But… it's still… _going _right?"

I laugh and nod. "Please!"

His smile is relieved. "Thank god," he says, smoothing his hand over one of my shoulders. "To be honest I was half expecting you to run screaming from this as soon as you saw my knees."

I make a show of looking down at his legs. "They're _nice _knees."

"You don't think I'm too weird for you?"

I blink. My head, which is… very much swimming in beer right now, starts to spin. How does one reply to that? We all think we're weirder than everyone around us. We all _are. _The depths of my weirdness probably haven't even begun to surface for him.

And my father had always taught us that to be weird - to be different - wasn't necessarily the curse everyone else thought it was.

"Weird is relative," I say, instead, poking at his stomach. "And in my case I don't think there's any such thing as _too _weird." I reach up and cup his cheek, which is stubbled again. Obviously his perpetual five-o-clock shadow isn't something he has a choice about.

His look turns a bit sad, then and he shakes his head.

"I hope that's true," he says softly.


	10. Three am

Three am in Kings Cross is different from three am in other places. Noisier for one. Smellier too. I mean, the sheer weight of MacDonalds refuse on the pavement would be enough to feed a developing country. And there are lights. And people who make what Andy was wearing earlier look like conservative work clothes.

I've never felt comfortable here. It's not my sort of place, but I love it all the same. I feel a bit naughty for even coming here, but it is the best place to find coffee and nachos after a hard night of drinking and dancing and the six of us Andy, Leto, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline and I, are crowded around a table at the back of the Gnawed Noble watching the one remaining fish in their fish tank stare at us as we shove corn chips and beans in our mouths and drink coffee that will probably only succeed in making me want sleep more…

There are others here too who sort of followed us from the party - Cailan and Alistair and Sigrun are sitting at a table with Nate and I'm pretty sure I can see Cailan's hand is closer to Nate's thigh than his own under the table while Alistair grins goofily at Sigrun and she turns her particular brand of bubbly charm in his direction.

At the moment? I'm sort of high. Not the high I get from pot, because that high for me is all about the crushing weight of nausea (I can never remember not to drink beforehand, it's always been my downfall) but the high I get from having a _good _night - a night where I've had fun and my friends have all been drama free and my life feels like it actually _works._

It helps that Andy is here. It helps that I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans again instead of my Spice Girls outfit and I can lean back and sit without worrying about people looking up my skirt.

Nachos are good too. I love nachos.

At the moment Andy and Leto are leaning over the table talking at each other in serious voices.

"That's not the point," Leto is saying and I know that tone of voice. "The point is that we have our _own _voices and half the time the social justice crowd says things that we simply _don't _agree with, and where do they get off putting _progams _in to help indigenous cultures when half the time they don't even know what it _is…"_

"I'm not in the wardens any more, you know,_" _Andy says, quite mildly, but Leto is still going and I don't think he even hears him.

"It'll get better when they stop taking the decision making process out of our hands and put it into the hands of the communities instead. And I don't give a shit, frankly. Everyone always assumes that I identify as Aboriginal and I fucking _don't… _I wasn't brought up even knowing which tribe I'm from and just because it's in my blood doesn't mean I have to immediately become one with the culture…"

Isabela pats the back of Leto's hand. "Sweet thing, I think Andy gets the point."

Andy gives her a grateful look and Leto shakes his head and sits back. "I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "I'm just used to…" he shoots a look over at Cailan's table, "certain types tend to just lump us all together under the same umbrella. As though we're only capable of behaving one way."

Andy smiles, but he's obviously uncomfortable. "Were you fostered?"

Leto cocks an eyebrow. "No. My mother was stolen, but she got to keep me."

A tension seems to go out of Andy and he relaxed. "That's something at least."

Leto narrows his eyes at Andy and I get the distinct impression that he likes Andy even less than he's ever liked me, which is saying something. "She didn't get to keep my sister though. Her father took her when he left us."

Andy swallows. "I'm sorry."

"Leto you're being a dick," Iz says and I shoot her a grateful look, until she turns to Andy and points. "And so are you, Andrew. We're drunk, it's late, we should be playing 'I have never' not talking about serious things, or do I have to drag handsome home?"

"I have never?" Merrill brightens and sits forward in her chair. I groan.

"Merrill we need alcohol for that and this place is _not _a bar."

"Oooh, but I love finding out what everyone's done, it's always so _exciting! _What about that time you told us all about the boy you met on the internet who turned out…"

Iz clamps her hand over Merrill's mouth and grins as she splutters and attempts to keep talking, while I blush into my coffee and hope like _hell _Andy isn't giving me the look I think he's giving me. I know Leto is.

"Yes, well, Merrill, that's one reason why the game needs alcohol," Aveline says.

There are no more nachos left. I am suddenly hit with a wave of tiredness so hard that I nearly keel over. Instead I feel Andy's warm hand on my arm and the heat of his breath near my ear.

"You all right?"

I really want to lean into his shoulder and go to sleep. Right here, in the middle of the dingiest cafe in Kings Cross.

"Hey you should probably get home," he says, so the others can't hear. "All that spice dancing's obviously worn you out."

I grin but nod and move to stand up. Aveline is staying at Merrill's tonight - the drive back to Castle Hill too much for her to take, and Iz is almost certainly going back to Leto's - or Leto is going back to hers if he can cope with the accountants, so I'll be on my own in a cab.

Andy walks me outside. The street is still just as noisy and crowded, even though it's nearly dawn. We've just missed changeover time and cabs are trawling the streets looking for people who aren't too drunk to take as fares.

I hope I qualify.

"You… uh… do you want to share a cab? You live near me, right?"

He grins a little lasciviously. "Stanmore," he says. "But… I've still got nachos to eat."

"You should probably get back to them," I say, biting my lip. "Uh… Merrill has this habit of eating everything that isn't tied down if you leave her alone in a room."

"But she's so tiny!"

I shrug. He looks off towards the city and shuffles his feet and I steel my courage. I can almost hear my father's voice - _take the initiative, Hawke, it's what we're good at_ - and I lean up on tip toes to kiss his cheek.

He blinks, looking startled for a moment before cupping the back of my head and pulling me back into a more thorough kiss. It goes on for a while - I'm not entirely certain how long, except that it feels good, and I don't want it to stop.

He breaks it off and I blink, his face above me in shadow as he looks over my head to the road and holds up a hand. I assume he's flagging a taxi, but he looks otherworldly, suddenly - the flashing lights of the nearest adult novelty shop colouring his skin with blue cracks every few seconds. On. Off. On. Off.

He's not smiling any more and I wonder what that means, even though his hands on my shoulder are gentle as he turns me around, even though he kisses the back of my neck softly and gently, making me shiver.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he says and I look back over my shoulder and smile.

"Not early," I say.

"Not a chance," he replies.

The cab driver honks at me, and I barrel into the cab, looking back as it drives off to see Andy still standing there, blue light surrounding him intermittently.

On.

Off.

On.


	11. Brotherly Love

It's a week after the party and things are definitely going ... Slow for us. We met up for a coffee at The Hanged Man the next day - it was quiet and soothing and we chatted about this and that - discovered a mutual love of JRPGs which made me laugh like a loon (his favourite is Final Fantasy Seven - I told him he was a conformist and he flicked coffee foam in my eye) and he promised to try to meet me for lunch during the week...

It's hard, because I've got a big performance coming up (that damned Mahler) and he's got - god, this fantastically huge workload from med - seriously it's insane and involves classes before 9am and trips out to Westmead (why fucking Westmead? Royal Prince Alfred is around the fucking corner!) so really slow is the only way it can go.

It's… nice though. And while it does kind of feel like sitting in a waiting room, it's a comfortable waiting room with lots of trashy, up-to-date, magazines and I'm not actually _sick _just there for… I don't know a prescription or something.

In the meantime, during this… slow period life goes on. I practice, not as much as I should. I attend classes, I eat, I drink, I sleep and I…

…deal with my brother.

We have a thing, in the Hawke family, of family dinners. Once a week. Mum says it's to make sure I eat properly. It's pretty much the only time I get to see Carver - which is ok. I mean, we get on, as much as most siblings do, actually better than we did, before the ... thing. But we don't talk. So these dinners we have tend to be ones where mum asks one of us a question and then waits for us to answer, before turning to the other sibling and asking them something else. The sibling not involved in the mum exchange of information concentrates on eating whatever delicious concoction mum has created for us until it is our turn to speak again.

If we're feeling particularly friendly or chipper one of us will punctuate the other's information with grunts or eyerolls or the odd snigger (there were a lot of bloody sniggers the night I told mum I'd met Andy - I repaid them with a lot of groans and sneers the night Carver mentioned his army girl).

Tonight, however, it seems we are going to throw the routine out the window. Mum isn't able to get a word in edgewise because it's time for me to _shout at my little brother for being an idiot._

_"What?" _

"I've taken the test - they accepted me. It's _hard _to get into, Sorcha, and it's an excellent opport..."

"You fall for an army chick so now you're going to become a soldier? Fuck Carver there are two wars going on is this some sort of pathetic attempt to one-up..."

"Fuck you sister - just because I don't ponce around on a stage doesn't make my life choices any less valid..."

"What if they give you active service?_ Jesus _Carver, the allies are busy killing half their soldiers with friendly fire and what do you think mum will do if you…"

"What gives you the right to tell me how _mum _is going to feel - she's right here you know you could _ask_ before deciding what she thinks…"

"Or you could both just stop bickering for a moment and let me tell you."

Mum's voice is always so mild. It's a trick she learned being a nurse, I think, but it commands attention - and Carver and I both fall silent - a programmed response that I don't think we could repress if we tried.

I swallow the tide of rage that's been building. Mum puts her hands, which are looking older, I realise, flat on the table and looks at us both.

"Carver are you _sure _about this, sweetheart?"

He nods. "I am, mum," he says.

"You're not just doing it to follow after this girl? It might seem like a good idea because of her but sex is never a good thing to base a life decision on…."

_"MUM!" _Carver flushes red and I can't stop a smirk.

"I'm serious, darling," Mum says. "This could all be very well up to the point she decides there's someone else who interests her more…"

"It's _not _just because of Kahrin, mum, I swear it's not… I…." my little brother looks down, his trademark scowl deeper than it usually is. He's really troubled by this and I sit back in my chair, actually… actually _listening _to him for a change. "I've wanted to do this since Bali I just didn't want to say anything because I knew how you would react…" he glares at me and I can't stop my mouth from dropping open.

"Since…"

He nods. "It's not just fighting, you know. That's not the only thing soldiers _do _- it's the clean up after things like that, the aid work you know? That's what makes it worthwhile."

I swallow. And then I look at mum, who has a small smile on her face that I remember from when she used to look at dad and my heart clenches with a sudden realisation.

Carver _looks _like him. Dad's hair was red - like mine - and it always made everyone assume _I _was the one who looked like him - people just … figured colouring was the most important thing - but Carver has his nose and the same set of the eyes and… _god _I don't know why I never noticed it before, even his _voice _is similar and it's only because Carver usually only uses it to _complain_ whereas dad used to joke and poke fun and make sarcastic comments that used to drive Carver _nuts…_

Something tells me mum has _always _known it.

"I'm happy for you, Carver," she says. "And I can't say I'm too surprised, although your sister seems to be. Perhaps if you two spent more time talking to each other and less time making jokes and moaning…"

"_Bad _jokes," he says.

"More whining than moaning," I mutter.

Mum laughs and reaches her hands out over the table. We both take one each, even though I groan internally and Carver does it out loud.

"Whatever you decide to do with your lives I'll always be your mum. Remember that. And I'll _probably _always love you too."

I laugh, and so does Carver, and it's all right, suddenly, fixed and done and I can't bring myself to hate his decision even though Grandpa Hawke used to say _if you've half a mind to join the army that's all you need _even though dad had always scoffed at the thought of anyone willingly joining the armed services, even though I can't get the image of Carver in army fatigues out of my head in some sort of weird video game where he's the only one who can save us all…

God help us.

Then it hits me that he _will _technically be part of an institution that is _meant _to be protecting us and I can't stop a small giggle. Carver glares at me and the giggle becomes a full-throated laugh.

"Shut up, Sisi," Carver says, but he's smiling when he says it.

"Sorry, bro," I say, the laughter subsiding. "Just… do me a favour and never show me how to field strip a machine gun, or whatever it is you people do that makes you awesome and kick arse?"

"I don't think I'm allowed to," he replies.

"Thank heaven for small mercies."

We eat in silence for a few moments before something else occurs to me. "You know, there's another plus to this I hadn't considered," I say brightly.

"What's that?" Mum asks looking at me over her glass of wine.

"He'll have to cut that stupid hair," I say, and duck as Carver throws a pea at me.


	12. Outings

I've convinced my mum to let me borrow the car this weekend. I'm not the world's greatest driver - I came to it late, but I _am _careful. It surprises me, however, that Andy doesn't drive at all.

"Didn't you grow up in the country?" I ask him.

He laughs. "I _can _drive. I just don't have a license."

"Why not?"

He shrugs. "I don't need one? I don't have enough money for a car? I'm probably a danger to all those who venture onto roads?"

"You're shit at it?"

"Insanely awful," he's grinning at me. "Driving a tractor is very different to driving a Toyota, just so you know."

I grin and shift gears, making them crunch, and he winces. "Where are we going any way?"

My knowledge of Sydney isn't encyclopedic - but when I was younger Dad used to take us places on the weekends, all three of us, in an attempt to give mum some time off, especially if she'd been working shifts, so I _do _know a lot of places that are specifically designed (at least, in my mind) to amuse kids with active imaginations. There weren't a whole lot of things Dad could do with us that would keep both Carver _and _Beth and I amused, so when he found one that worked, we'd go there a _lot._

The old fortifications at Middle Head was our favourite. Hands down. I remember Carver used to jump up and down asking Dad to take us there, every weekend, practically, even though it was a fair drive and I know now Dad was terrified we'd get lost in one of the tunnels and have to be rescued or fall of the cliffs and die terribly or get stung by blue ringed octopi or bitten by a redback or one of the fifty other million things that could happen to you in Sydney on any given day that foreigners always laugh at you about…

We'd go, armed with balls of string and pocket torches, and explore the tunnels that always seemed so much more dangerous than they probably were, the sound of the ocean and the echoes and darkness making it feel like a real life dungeons and dragons game (to me) some sort of romantic adventure story (to Beth) and what it actually was _intended _to be, a network of defense tunnels with which to repel the Japanese, or the Indonesians or whoever was going to bother to invade a country that's main export at the time was sheep. Carver always pretended to be some kind of arse-kicking American marine. Apparently Americans were better at that sort of thing, although Carver's accent was truly and universally appalling.

It was a beautiful spot too, and I know Dad did a fair bit of his intermittent composing there, sitting on an outcrop as we romped and played in the tunnels, looking out over the ocean, or holed up in a tunnel watching us and laughing when it was raining. Once we went there during a storm and he dragged me out to watch the lightning striking far, far out on the horizon and we counted the seconds before we heard the thunder and for most of them we never did…

In any case, Andy has the weekend off. He has no assignments or classes or things he has to do at Westmead and he can't drive, so I offered to take him out. Since neither of us have any money, we had to brainstorm for a while before I came up with bringing him here. In the boot we've got wine, food and reading material. I've even packed a ball of string and a pocket torch.

When we get there he has a look of surprised wonder on his face that makes me want to kiss it, so we do that, for a while, before trekking up to the best spot overlooking the ocean. "Didn't they shoot a Farscape episode here once?" he asks, and I laugh, because they _did._

We eat, and drink a little bit (not too much, since I'm going to have to drive home) and I tell him about why the place is important, and about Carver, because that still hasn't really sunk in for me.

"He's in the army now?" Anders says.

"He's going to Canberra. They'll put him through university - engineering tech, something weird and Carver-ish, and then he'll be an officer."

"I nearly did that," he says, taking a drink and looking out over the ocean. I blink.

"_You?"_

He nods. "Back when I was trying to get the marks together to get into med. Needless to say I didn't follow through. They would have trained me as a medic though, so…" he shrugs. "Carver might be onto a good thing."

"Have you always wanted to do medicine?"

He smiles. "No. For a while there I wanted to be a revolutionary. Justin wanted me to study law with him and… change the system… " he waves a hand. "I… just didn't have the energy. Really."

"But you've got the energy to spend sixty hours a week working to be a doctor?"

He laughs. "Point." He takes a sip of wine and looks at me over the glass. "The way you talk about your father… here, with you and your brother and your sister… You're not… " he looks troubled, obviously trying to find the words. "You haven't said anything about the people who did it."

I don't know why I'm suddenly so… still. I should have expected that question. Especially with the trial coming up. He seems to realise he's asked the wrong question though, because he shakes his head. "I didn't mean to… I mean… I'm sorry you don't have to answer me…"

I twirl the plastic glass of wine in my hand and then shrug and drink it. "I suppose you think I'm howling for their blood," I say softly.

"It would make sense," he replies.

I grimace. "You think?"

He looks at me and I want to kiss him again because he _doesn't. _"I would… _understand _it."

I look at him again and he shakes his head and laughs, but it's a sad laugh. "Nothing they do to them will bring back dad or Beth," I say finally. "And _they _think they'll get their heaven and their forty virgins or whatever the fuck it is they get. Why not let them rot in jail instead?"

He turns his head to focus on the water and I can't tell what's going on in his head and I'm not even sure that I want to. I'm saved from the trouble when I hear his mobile ring.

He pulls it from his pocket and answers it, giving me an apologetic look that is quickly swallowed up by one of shock.

"What?" his lips press tight together and I know suddenly, that something is very, _very _wrong. "….How long ago?"

There is a long pause. I can hear a voice on the other end of the line, calm, low, but speaking at length and Andy's face turns hard, then clinical, then enraged in quick succession.

"Fucking _bastards," _he breathes, then shakes his head as the other person talks urgently again for a few moments. "Uh… well… No. No he doesn't. They're all interstate… " Andy gets to his feet and starts pacing, shaking his head. "I'm not close, it'll take me a while to get there," he glances up at me, eyes questioning. "I should be able to though. Uh… Is he all right? Is he going to be ok?"

There is another long pause. My brain has gone completely blank. I have no idea who he might be talking about - his foster father maybe? Justin? His _cat? _But it's pretty obvious someone's been hurt and it's someone important to him and…

…this is definitely the end of our outing.

I start cleaning up things and putting cheese away as Andy says a few more "uh huh"s and "I see"s before he shuts off the phone and turns to look at me.

"Um…" he starts, catching that beautiful lower lip between his teeth. "Something's happened."

I try for a smile. "I guessed."

"It's a lot to ask, but do you think… you could give me a lift?"

"Where to?"

He looks grim. "St Vincent's." The hospital in Darlinghurst.

I was right. "God. What's wrong?"

"A friend of mine. Karl. He's been…" he shakes his head, gritting his teeth. "He's been attacked. They called me because they found my number in his wallet. I… he doesn't have any family here… I hate to ask but…"

I stand up. "Don't be stupid. Of course I'll take you."

He takes a long, shaky breath. "Karl's one of my oldest friends. We knew each other when we were kids… this… I can't…. "

"What happened?"

"The doctor says he's been beaten up. It probably happened last night, but they didn't find him till this morning."

"Fuck."

"He's unconscious. They don't even know… God I have to call his parents…"

I finish packing up our things, hastily, shoving the bag in his hands. "Come on," I say.

He catches my arm as I turn to go to the car. "Sorcha," he says. I turn back and he pulls me to him roughly, catching my mouth with his and kissing me hard. It's unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome. When he's finished, he leans his forehead on mine for a few seconds, breathing hard, eyes closed. Then he nods, once, firmly. "Thanks," he says.

I follow him to the car


End file.
